Stain
by VivikaThemis
Summary: A oneshot in which we view the death of Charity Burbage from Draco Malfoy's POV, and his subsequent disillusionment. Complete.


Disclaimer: The Harry Potter Universe, it its entirety, belongs to the wonderful and exceedingly talented J.K. Rowling, Warner Bros, and other affiliates. This fanfiction is nonprofit.

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"Not until we are lost do we being to find ourselves."  
 _-Henry David Thoreau_

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 **Stain  
** _by ElleAllio_

To pretend, even for a moment, that this was what he had wanted would be an absolute lie.

He had many faults, which he would not deny. He was arrogant, selfish, and cowardly. He lashed out at others to protect his fragile mindset. He tormented peers to make himself feel more important; to convince others that he was better than them. But he was not one to deceive himself, no matter the circumstances.

As the Death Eater meeting adjourned, he stared at the place where Charity Burbage had dangled from the ceiling, spinning slowly. There was a small pool of salt water, saliva, and mucous that had dripped down her face and splattered against the table. It shimmered in the torch light. He briefly considered casting Tergeo on it, but left it to stain the dark mahogany wood. A small reminder of what had happened here tonight.

The Dark Mark on his arm still tingled. The sensation that had rippled up his flesh when the Dark Lord had branded him had been a combination of pain and pleasure unlike anything he had ever known before. He could feel the magic inside of it, like insects crawling under his skin. It was tainted. It was unnatural. Even he, who had grown up exposed to dark artifacts, who had been raised in the shadowy gray areas of right and wrong, knew without a doubt that the tattoo like skull against his alabaster forearm was cursed.

He agreed, in theory, with the intentions of the Death Eaters. Ever since the fall of Grindelwald in the 1940s, pureblood tradition had been systematically eradicated from polite society. Whereas muggleborn students at Hogwarts were once taught the etiquette of wizarding culture, pupils were now indoctrinated into Muggle Studies. They weren't aware of their barbaric mannerisms, which made it all the worse. The lack of proper titles, the failure to bow or curtsy to superiors, these were things that his upbringing had taught him to frown upon with utmost distaste.

Since he'd been a young boy, his father had told him of the political movement of the Knights of Walpurgis, who sought knowledge above all things. Later, these men and women began following Grindelwald, and in the 1970s, they pledged themselves to Lord Voldemort. What had started out as an uprising, demanding the reintegration of the old ways, had quickly deteriorated into a terrorist organization under the Dark Lord's leadership.

He supported the revolution in theory, yes. But he did not agree with these methods.

To know that the Sacred Twenty-Eight were superior was one thing. To be a slave to this new master was another. Draco was all talk, no action. His father was his champion and his trump card. But Draco knew in his heart of hearts that he was more like his mother; cold and ambitious, yet disgruntled by useless violence. If their Lord had only stayed true to course, rallied for the rights of purebloods, he could have followed him wholeheartedly.

The room was thinning. The torches had been relighted, removing the furnishings from its eery glow. His mother was resting her hand on his shoulder, voicelessly imploring him to get up and leave to his suite at the opposite side of the manor. The Dark Lord was nowhere to be seen. He slid out of his chair and stood up, walking slowly from the dining hall. With one last glance over his shoulder, he focused his steel gray eyes on the spot of fluid on the surface of where he ate his meals. Now, in this light, he could see the tinge of bright red. She was a mudblood; and yet, there, on that table, was proof that she bled the same colors as himself. For the briefest second, his mask slipped. And he knew deep in his gut that the task he had been set would be infinitely harder. Because he was no longer sure if he truly believed in this cause.

There was no way he could have known that, at that precise moment, he had begun the road to his redemption.

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 **Author's Notes** : This is meant as a oneshot, but if people are interested in me expanding it, I'll give the possibility due consideration. However, I will not be taking on any large projects until the completion of the Life and Lies of Hermione Granger.

 **Reviews are my muse.**


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